


Eye of the Needle

by trill_gutterbug



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: Cock & Ball Torture, Dirty Talk, F/M, Femdom, In Which Trill Continues to Name Fics after Star Trek Episodes Because Why the Eff Not, Laura has no patience for Sweeney's shit and Sweeney likes getting his balls busted, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Missing Scene, No reciprocal sex, PWP, Season One Finale, Y'all know the scene I'm talking about, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 14:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11404242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: He could say no.But he didn't say anything.He put his hands behind his back.There was a second of quiet. A slow loaded quiet where what he'd just done, what he'd just agreed to, rolled over them both heavy as molasses. And then Laura put her hand between his legs from behind and grabbed his balls and twisted.





	Eye of the Needle

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks be unto my bae kaasknot for betaing <3

Hitting the floor hurt so bad it felt good, the snap of it up his spine and through his knees and into the meat of his shoulder. It was a welcome distraction from the blazing curdle of pain between his legs. He fell sideways, folded up, lungs seized with it.

"Fuck that guy,” said Laura behind him, her voice thready past the pounding of blood in his ears and the stutter of air in his throat. His hands shook between his legs, cramped as tight as the whine coming sharp and loud up his throat. He wanted to squeeze, soothe, rub away the pain quick like sticking a cut finger in his mouth, but it hurt so fucking  _ bad _ \-- He ground his face into the short savage bristle of the carpet and breathed through his mouth, between his teeth.

"Stop being such a fucking baby,” Laura said. “Shut up and let me think.”

“Fuck… you…” Sweeney gasped. “Jesus Christ, fuck you.”

“Listen.” Through the hot prickle of tears in his eyes, he saw her drop onto her haunches beside him. Her rat’s nest hair and her dull grey eyes and the gaping neck of her jacket where a fold of yellowing torn flesh showed through. She pursed her lips. “I've had a bit of a fucking day. And since you're mostly to blame for that--”

“Oi!” he protested weakly. He forced his fingers out of their clawed grip around his balls and pressed gently with the trembling palms of his hands until the shock of it zipped all the way up his spine and burst hot in the base of his skull, a firework explosion of goosebumps down his arms and a sick slow clench of every muscle in his belly. He let out his breath again with his mouth half open, shaking and wet. “I fuckin brought you here, didn't I? Ain't my fault Ostara can't--”

“It's literally and absolutely your fault.” Laura reached out and jabbed him hard in the ribs with her small sharp finger. “It's a hundred percent your fault I'm even dead to begin with!”

“It is not!” Sweeney struggled to sit up. He put one hand against the carpet and pushed up, but Laura's single finger between his ribs jabbed harder and he crumpled under it. She could stick it straight through him if she wanted and they both knew it.

“Just following orders, I guess.” Laura snorted. “You're a goddamn piece of work.”

Sweeney shut his eyes until he saw orange starbursts behind them and muttered into the carpet, “‘Goddamn’ is goddamn right.”

“Your pity party can wait.” She stuck another two fingers between his ribs like she was checking him for tenderness, like he was a roast coming bloody and steaming out of the oven. “First, we’re going to go find-- Oh my god!” Her voice rose and her hand snatched away from him. “Are you fucking-- Are you honestly jerking yourself off right now?”

Sweeney froze, because. Because well. “No!” he yelped, yanking his hands away from where they'd been pressing at his groin. “I’m fuckin-- I'm in  _ pain _ , you daft cunt! I'm just--” He wasn't  _ just _ anything. He struggled to sit up again. Again, she shoved him flat, but this time with her entire hand, and hard enough that the wind jolted out of him and his cheek skidded across the carpet. He felt the scabs on his face open up, sharp salty needles of pain shooting prickles of heat all over his scalp.

“Don't 'just’ me, I'm not an idiot! I know what a guy rubbing one out face-first on the floor looks like.”

_ Well. _

“Yeah,” Sweeney panted into the carpet, because it was a specific and irrefutable fact of his existence that he just did not know how to be kind to himself. “Yeah, I bet you fuckin do, I bet you know exactly what that looks like, and I bet Shadow--”

She hit him so hard he saw stars, and this time they weren't warm comforting orange ones. They were red and black and all-consuming. They bounced his head off the wall to his right and shook him upside down and inside out, and when they shimmered sheer enough that he could see again, Laura had yanked him up by the belt onto his knees and had one hand pinned between his shoulder blades, her nails hooked into the knob of his spine.

“Thought a lot about that, have you?” she demanded. “Shadow rubbing one out?”

“...No,” he said, but it was barely a word at all. He couldn't get air enough for it, much less honesty.

She either didn't hear him or she knew just as well as he did what a miserable lie it was. Her hand tightened on the back of his pants, pulling them up tight against his sore balls, his-- Goddamnit, his hard,  _ hard _ cock. He'd been hard since the second she'd let him slide down the wall and blood could rush back to his prick, because if there was one thing he was, if not smart or lucky or even basically motherfucking competent half the time, it was consistent.

“That is the saddest shit I've ever heard,” Laura said. “Probably should have known, though, you're not exactly the subtlest bastard on the planet.” She laughed. Fuck, he hated the sound of it. He hated  _ her _ . He grit his teeth, thrashed under her hands and got nowhere except deeper into the mother of all wedgies she was giving him. “And you like getting your balls busted. Why is that the least surprising thing I've heard all year.”

“You fucking  _ bitch _ ,” he tried to say, but all that came out was a yowl that went high in the middle and cracked and slid off sideways into a sob when she jerked the seam of his jeans up into the hot tender swell of his balls again. She said something to him, something he couldn't hear over the slam of his heart against his eardrums, but he got it when she leaned down to repeat it, her cold breath rank on the side of his face.

“Take. Your pants. Off.”

It took him a second to obey, but not more than one. Her grip on his spine loosened just enough that he could squirm his hands under himself, fumble at the buckle of his belt, fiddle the zipper down with shaking fingers. His cock throbbed when his fly opened, filling out further in his boxers. It hurt like pressing on a fresh bruise, like walking on a sleeping foot, like holding a frostbitten limb over a fire. He groaned against the carpet.

“All the way off,” she said, tugging his belt. She didn't help him push them down, not until he'd shoved them inch by painstaking inch over his hips and wiggled them halfway down his ass, and then she jerked them down to his knees, boxers and everything, and he was bare as a kid getting the strap over his daddy's lap. His cock twitched up and hit him in the belly, beneath the hanging edge of his shirt. He touched it with one hand, cupped gingerly at the prickling weight of his sore balls.

Laura said, “Uh uh, I don't think so,” and, “Put your hands behind your back.”

He hesitated, although there wasn't much point. The damage was long done and he'd never had pride enough to walk away from a brewing shitstorm anyway. She had him. She had him literally by the short and curlies and she knew it and he knew it and she knew he knew it. He thought, for one endless doubting moment, about saying no. Saying it firm and meaning it and letting her hear how much he meant it, because he knew she'd stop. He knew she'd let him go and let him up and wipe her hands on her pants like he'd soiled her-- like  _ he'd _ soiled  _ her _ , her with her cold hands and her rotten stink and her dead foggy eyes glazing over more and more with each passing hour-- and they'd walk away and probably not talk about it again until she needed to goad him into doing something else he didn't want to do, one more barb to catch him with.

He could say no.

But he didn't say anything.

He put his hands behind his back.

There was a second of quiet. A slow loaded quiet where what he'd just done, what he'd just agreed to, rolled over them both heavy as molasses. And then Laura put her hand between his legs from behind and grabbed his balls and twisted.

He screamed into the floor. It burst out of him without hitting any checkpoints along the way, straight from groin to mouth. It cleansed everything, burnt him empty as fire through a dead forest. He sagged at the end of it, wrung out, boneless, gasping.

She shifted to kneel behind him, bumping his legs with her legs. She reached around his naked hip with her other hand and grabbed his cock.

His whole body spasmed with it, jackknifed tight. He got the carpet between his teeth and cursed it in seven languages, screwed his eyes shut and felt the stroke of her hand with a billion nerve endings all at once. She stripped him base to tip and rubbed the cold curve of her palm over the head of his prick. She pulled his balls down away from his body and everything in him came alive in a singing burst of blinding light.

“You like thinking about my husband when you jerk off?” Laura said. Her voice was calm. It was low and unimpressed and uninterested. It was barely aware he even existed. “Is that what gets you off, thinking about other people's men?”

He panted and ground his forehead against the floor and wanted to say,  _ He ain't your husband. He ain't your man, and besides you're one to fuckin talk _ , but language wasn't working much for him anymore.

“I think we both know that's never going to happen,” Laura continued, “but how about I paint you a little picture, hmm?”

She found a rhythm. It was a rhythm that pulled his soul out by the roots and then shoved it back in with all the finesse of a red hot poker. She squeezed his balls and squeezed the shaft of his prick and pushed her thumb in under the head of it. His hips bucked forward, ugly and graceless, hungry.

“For starters,” she said, “Shadow’s got a big dick. Not the biggest I've ever seen, but close. It’s fat and it's long and he knows how to use it. He can make me come with nothing but his dick. You know how rare that is?” She didn't want an answer, of course, but she tugged his balls like she was prompting him. She finished her own thought. “Pretty fucking rare. Most men are useless in the sack, which I probably don't need to tell you. But Shadow... He can go for  _ hours _ if I want him to. Especially if I put a cockring on him. I mean, he'll cry about it.” She made a noise like she was shrugging. “He'll promise to be good and oh my  _ god  _ he can be so good, but he'll whine and shake and he'll bite his lip and beg and his whole body just turns into this…” She trailed off into a hum that was half chuckle, half appreciation, and all mocking. Her little hand gripped him like a vise and jerked him like a bulldozer. She could peel the skin right off his cock if she wanted and it felt like she was considering it. She twisted his balls slow and thoughtful, pulling them back between his legs. He made another noise into the floor. Not a scream this time, he couldn't draw breath enough for it, but a guttural wretched keen that scoured his throat. He shook and trembled and gripped his wrist against the small of his back with all the strength in his body.

“Mm,” Laura said, like she'd just finished a perfect chocolate mousse and was contemplating having another. “I'm not gonna lie, Robbie was a bit of a disappointment. But I guess sometimes it's the forbidden things that get us off hardest, right?” She twisted her hand around his shaft, counterpoint to the way she twisted his balls. Her thumb pushed in between his stones in their sack, rubbed deep up the middle of him into a spot that made the warm orange starbursts come flashing back. He could throw up, he could feel it rising thick and seasick in his belly. But he... he could also come. Soon, maybe.

“Other people's husbands, other people's lives. The endless list of shit we're not supposed to have.” She snorted. The stroke of her fist over him seemed like an afterthought, her voice distant, although perhaps that was only because he couldn't focus on anything but her hands and the pain biting like a crocodile at the base of his pelvis.

“You're an asshole,” she said, not accusing, but observing. “You get it. You know that point where nothing normal works for you anymore.” She let his balls drop all of a sudden and the rush of it was even worse than when he'd let his cock out of his jeans, all the blood flooding back and the bounce of them tight as a bungee cord, like they were falling out of him and taking his guts along for the ride. He howled, writhed, and didn't realise he'd moved his hands until she grabbed his wrist and yanked it back up behind his back. “I didn't say you could fucking move, did I?”

He shook his head and sobbed into the floor and drummed his feet until the rush of it slacked off, receding, a wave running back down the beach. As it went, he had a vague realisation of a sudden uncomfortable silence from beyond the curtain that separated them from the rest of the house. It was the brief embarrassed lull of a house full of guests too polite to mention what was clearly going on down the hallway, before the murmur of conversation rose again. A flush of mortification chased the pain down his spine and swarmed hot in his belly.

He shut his eyes and got in one breath of relief before Laura touched him again. Deceptively gentle, just cupping him, rolling him. Like she was checking a pair of peaches for ripeness at the farmer's market, feeling for soft spots, not sure if she wanted to bother buying them.

“It's that point,” she continued, “where Shadow's big dick and his tight little ass and how good he looks when he cries weren't enough anymore. When they weren't even  _ available _ anymore.” She leaned in close behind him so he could feel the cool brush of her jacket on his bare ass, smell her sickly sweet breath when she spoke. “I had all that and I got  _ bored _ of it. You're not even going to  _ get  _ it.”

He groaned. Her hand rubbed up and down him, up and down. He wanted with every fibre of his being to turn around and punch her, put his fist straight through her face and out the other side, tear her to shreds with his nails and his teeth. Instead, he stayed still. He pushed back against her.

The hand around his balls tightened, slacked off, and then smacked him. The flat of her palm. It made a soft patting noise utterly incapable of conveying the criminal agony of it. He lost his breath again.

“So what do you think about when you're rubbing one out all by yourself at night, huh? You think about Shadow doing this to you? Or the other way around? He'd like it better that way, I'll tell you that.” She made a soft considering noise. “Probably not from you, let's be honest here, but as a general rule. He likes being told what to do and he likes getting the shit kicked out of him. He's a good boy.”

He heard the word  _ puppy _ in his head. He felt the rub of her thumb on his prick. He wanted to fucking die.

“You like getting fucked?” She almost sounded like she cared, a patronising note to her voice. “I like doing the fucking, personally. And Shadow takes it so good.” She chuckled, sighed. “Face down, ass up. Familiar, huh?” Her fingertips stroked his balls lightly, her nails catching. “He says please and thank you so pretty, it's really something. I'd say you have to see it to believe it, but that's not true. You can tell just looking at him, can't you?” She wrapped her whole hand around his sac and squeezed. “Can't you?”

This time she did want an answer, he knew it, and he babbled it out half-crying, wet with drool and tears he didn't know he'd wept. “Yes, yes! You can fucking, you can  _ tell _ \--” He didn't know what he was saying, whether it was right, but her hand kept tightening and her fist kept pumping. “He's so-- he's so good-- he's just-- please, I can't. I  _ can't _ .  _ Please _ !”

“Oh, for God's sake,” she muttered, and even through the whitewash of noise in his head and the ringing in his ears, he could hear the capital G. “You've got no fucking backbone.” She pulled his balls back, cinched up tight between his legs, stretched in the sac, and he realised why a second later when she hooked them secure between her first two fingers and pushed her thumb against his asshole. “I'm not going to fuck you, and neither is he,” she said. “But you can pretend. That's basically all you do these days anyway, right?”

She jerked his cock with a brutality that gutted him, like she was dragging a badly behaved dog down the street, hauling it to heel. Her thumb dug into the tender give of his asshole, dry, sharp. It pushed in up to the first knuckle, and her hands were tiny but god it  _ hurt _ , and--

“Get it over with,” she said. “Get your fucking rocks off, we have shit to do today. I don't have time for this.”

He came like she'd flipped a switch. It poured out of him, ruined him from the inside out. His balls throbbed in her hand, pulling against her grip, the come dragged out of them by force and gravity alone. He lost his mind.

When it came back, he was still face-down on the floor, but he'd slumped over and his hands were limp at his sides. He was shaking so hard his teeth chattered.

Laura was wiping her palm down his bare flank, still talking. He couldn't hear her. He couldn't hear anything. He was on fire.

“--later,” Laura said, her voice rising from the murk. She stood up and moved away. He watched her walk through the doorway into the bathroom. He felt the carpet under his hip and the burning throb of his balls between his legs. His face was wet with tears and the inside of his mouth hurt. He'd bitten his cheek. He tasted blood.

Laura washed her hands for a long minute. His eyes drifted shut. His belly was wet with jizz, his cock soft on his thigh. He wanted to touch it, to cup the swollen angry mass of his balls in both hands, but he couldn't move.

Laura dried her hands and came back out of the bathroom. She stood beside him. He looked up at her through one eye. He should probably be ashamed of himself, try to cover himself, but the thought seemed far away and irrelevant.

She nudged his thigh with her toe. “Come on,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly gentle. “Get up, we've got shit to do.”

He got up.

 


End file.
